


buried under

by orphan_account



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Jason deserves better 2k18, Me single handly fixing canon, mentions of child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 11:13:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15817749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: For the prompt: "It's okay to cry."Or, Jason finds out Willis is alive.





	buried under

**Author's Note:**

> This was for my drabble challenge, that was supposed to be 100 words but out of the shear spite that I am- please enjoy this 1k fic about how much I hate Willis. Cross-posted on tumblr as well.

****Jason has the name of a tragedy, the name of a man who was abandoned at birth, dethroned and discarded, and died, alone, asleep under the stern of the mans rotting ship. Jason has the name and the life of a tragedy too.

 

Because Willis is still alive, still out there, kicking and breathing, and Jason wants to put a bullet through his head, just like he did with the Joker, but Willis doesn’t even derserve one of Jason’s _bullets,_ because he’s useless, low down dirt, he doesn’t derserve something so quick, so humorless -

 

And he’s stuck in one of his safe houses, not his apartment, drowning a glass of Gotham’s moonshine, and nursing what’s left of old Jason in the new Jason, the old one that had thought Robin had given him magic, who had watched Willis fist connect with his cheeks, then his eyes, then every other part, the one who had laid down in the bed, and had blamed it all on himself. 

 

(Because he wasn’t good enough, because he wasn’t any better. But none of that is true now.)

 

And from somewhere beside him, there’s the thin sound of a window opeaning, one so small that if Jason wasn’t Jason, it would barley even grate his ears, but he knows the sound of that cape anywhere, the thin snap of it when the Gotham air makes it move back because he spent years learning how to kill the man underneath it, years learning how to survive on only anger and pain, and just for Bruce’s trouble, Jason throws his moonshine at him.

 

(He knows, internally, that this is childish, that it could be so much worse, then Willis being alive, breathing, that the blood that runs through his veins is the same as Mama Gunn but it’s not, because Jason feels empty, feels lifeless, like a vessel.)

 

“Fuck off.”

 

And Bruce sits down beside him, puts his hands on his shoulders, and if Jason wasn’t so broken, so shattered he would lean into it, like he used to do as Robin, like he wanted to when Talia had brought him back, before he knew the Joker was alive, before he knew Robin had a new face and a name. But he shakes it off, because Jason is grown now, because Jason know’s what his namesake had felt when his crown had been tossed down, when he had been disowned, discarded, in a place that was meant to be his home.

 

Jason thinks there’s pain in Bruce’s eyes, and that’s enough to make his gut clench, enough for him to ball his fist, and look away and he curses, and says - “Leave me alone, old man.”

 

And Bruce shakes his head, presses his lips together, and says. “No.”

 

Like that’s going to make up for all the mistakes that’s between them, the blood that’s on Jason’s hands, the way the crowbar had hit his skull, once, then twice, the way he had been dead, burried, forgotten, under far to many pounds of dirt.

 

“Then what the fuck do you want? “ And Bruce’s face is somber, most hidden underneath the mask, and Jason wonders how quickly he had came, whether it was because he cared, or because he had penguin face near his gun, had thought of pressing the trigger, to shoot the man point blank, but- Willis didn’t deserve to be avenged, he deserved to rot like Jason had done after he had died.

 

“Want to throw me in prision with him?”  And Jason feels the mirthless laugh, bubble through his gut and spill through his lips, because Willis wouldn’t even want to see him, wouldn’t care enough for him, would laugh at what Jason had become, what Jason had let himself become, probably sneer back with rotting yellow teeth,  _that he looks like him, act like him_ - “Finally gave up on the black sheep?”

 

“Jason-”  And Bruce wrings his fingers together, and it’s almost funny, because Jason’s still healing, and Bruce’s still trying to make up for his mistakes, the ones that must be in his blood now, because Mama Gunn runs through his veins, and Willis, and Shelia in the other, and his whole family is a messy line of criminals, of no do-gooders, and who was Bruce to try and tempt fate?

 

_“Go away, Bruce.”_

 

“It’s okay to cry.” Bruce says, and Jason snorts, because when he was younger, Willis had told him that crying made him less of a man, that it had made him a shell, that Gotham would gut out with its fingertips, and fill back up with spite, and anger, and other horror storys that made Jason want to cry even more. 

 

“I don’t care about Willis!”  And Jason fingers itch for his bottle of moonshine thats falling down his wall, itch to have it run down his throat, so he can blame the way its tight, and the feel of tears under his eyes on it but he wasted it in a fit of anger, his father’s anger, his grandmother’s anger,  _his anger._  “He could go die before I give a shit.”

 

 “But you do.”  And Bruce swallows, because talking to Jason must be like a land mine, must be like going into a gun fight, blind, and disarmed, must be like a Robin meeting a Joker’s crowbar, because Jason know’s that he’s broken, knows that there’s pieces of him, he could never get back- “Or you wouldn’t-”

 

“You don’t know me. You don’t care-” Jason says, and there is warning built deep down in his throats, and Jason thinks of the bat on his chest, and thinks maybe he doesn’t know that either, maybe the bat was never a symbol of justice, maybe Jason needs his own- “Or you would have noticed when I fucking dug myself out of my own grave.”

 

And even though, Jason can’t see Bruce’s face, he finds the wince, and Jasons to raw to entertain the guilt, the pain that Bruce has over a boy that died, and came back wrong, and tattered, and all he wants is for him to leave. 

 

(Or, part of him whispers, maybe he doesn’t. Because Bruce is here now, is reaching out to him, is doing much more then Willis had ever done-)

 

But that’s not enough, not now.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr and drabbles are @natashasromansoff. You can request a fic or a prompt, since there open. It's trully up to you with what happens next.


End file.
